He Who Hunts in the Dark
by LostCompass
Summary: He didn't know what drove him to seek out the ruins of Ostagar, to walk among the Grey Wardens, to wage bitter war against the Old Gods like a horror out of legend. But it was the exact same thing that drove him to seek her.


I sighed, watching the white-capped waves roll along. The rhythm of the sea made it so easy to forget.

* * *

><p>It hadn't been all too difficult to slip away. The celebrating carried on for days and days, and Alistair- that is, His Majesty Alistair Theirin, King of all Ferelden, Warden-Commander of Amarthine, Bane of all Darkspawn, Wolfwalker, Conqueror of the Deep Roads- was to whom the people flocked to, to whom nobles and knights alike swore their everlasting fealty and at whose feet maidens swooned, for whom wine ran in the streets like blood. But that wasn't for me. Not the "Hero" of Ferelden.<p>

But it was for the best, it being like this.

I had wandered aimlessly about the royal palace for half a fortnight- in the streets, I would be accosted by waves of cheering Fereldens, an abrupt parade taking place in my honor as I would be lifted by the crowd and carried around like some great, long-lost relic. In taverns, drunks and bards burst into deafening song of my supposed courageous deeds. Idiocy. The palace was my only refuge, but even in those high-arched corridors, I found no solace. It wasn't the servants or royal guards who pestered me, however. No, it had to be that damned dead man walking.

"It would behoove you to be more gracious towards your subjects, Warden," Loghain Mac Tir drily commented as I skulked into the library one miserablely festive day. Loghain found little joy in partaking in the insanity in the streets, instead confining himself to the quieter corners of the palace, having abandoned his armor for his yellowing, crackling maps, dusty codices, and an ever-present chalice of brandy. Today, he was poring over a brittle map of Orlais- who would've thought- with a stack of books detailing the nation's military history nearly obscuring his face from view.

"It would behoove you to recall that I was, indeed, given a name. A rather simple one, as well. You are more than free to use it, general."

Loghain snorted, cutting right to the soul of the matter, usual. "To speak with candor-" did he ever not? "I'm not surprised in the least. It's quite suitable, really. The sinister Warden pulling the strings behind the throne, the naive king dancing to his tune. Husbands, fathers, sons, conscripted by the thousands feed the Gray Wardens' dread armies. Am I not right? I'd be impressed, were I not so thoroughly disgusted."

I said nothing, simply stared into the flames dancing in the hearth. There was nothing to say, in all truth. Ever since seeing what the Arch Demon's dying wish had been for this country, that had been my plan of action... until now.

He looked up at me curiously. Perhaps he was expecting a rebuttal. "You're more agreeable than usual."

"Loghain, I need you to look after Alistair for me."

At first, there was silence. But then the cold, raw rage that emanated throughout the chamber could've flung books from the shelves and shattered glass. Good thing that chalice was made of gold. "What?"

There was no need to look back at him. I knew that his eyes would be wide with indignation, disbelief. "Alistair bears a strong heart in that cuirass, general, but not a wise one. What does he know of politics, diplomacy? He needs someone to guide him." Cracking my stiff knuckles, I turned around and stared at him intently. "He has Anora, yes. But he needs his greatest advisor, as well."

The first thing I heard was Loghain's teeth grinding back and forth. And then he had crossed the plush carpet, his knifelike eyes within a dagger's distance. "You will not do this to me. I've played my part in your fucking farce."

But he knew- and I knew- he still had his part to play. Forcing Alistair to leave Loghain's head attached to his shoulders had strained our fraternity's limit. I knew that Alistair would never forgive me for robbing him of his revenge- for Duncan, for Cailan, for everyone at Ostagar. But I couldn't have let it happen- Alistair, so blinded with hatred, couldn't see that he and Loghain were essentially the same. The different edge of the same blade.

"He has you. He has Anora. He has Wynne. He has your whole merry bloody band. He has no need-"

"More than anyone, he needs you." I ran a hand down my haggard, unshaven face, still not used to the feel of my bare hands rather than my gauntlets. I was so tired. Of fighting- with swords, with words. "You're well aware of that."

Fury seethed from him like blood from a mortal wound. I awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder, my fingers not used to the contours of flesh rather than pauldron. "Loghain. Please. I cannot fight at his side forever. Not even to the end of this year, actually," I added with a sigh.

"And where, pray tell, are you going? Are there more kingdoms to be saved, princesses to be rescued from towers?"

"You know me. If I knew, I would tell you freely, wouldn't I? All I know is that I am going where Morrigan is going, wherever that destination may lay."

Loghain's eyes narrowed in understanding. "The great slayer of Old Gods, struck down by love. How very droll. I'm sure there will be a shitting play cast in your honor. 'The Warden and the Wench', or of the sort."

I felt my lip curl back- maybe in a smile, or maybe a snarl. "Yes, precisely. And you'll be perfect for my part." The humor fell from my voice. "I may not return. I may not live past this very season. And that is why I ask this of you. Think of it as... one final request. Friend to friend."

He looked at me for a long time, and I noticed that, despite his age, those deep wrinkles, those dark circles beneath his eyes, there was a burning spark, a warrior's soul, that refused to be snuffed out. "It had better be the last, Warden Scarre," he grunted, shaking my hand bitterly.

* * *

><p>"Do pardon my asking, but... why, exactly, did you see it fit to wait this long?"<p>

I sighed, ducked beneath a one-two kick, parried a reverse-grip swing and hopped back out of the reach of Zevran's shortsword. "Because I _know_ Morrigan, Zev."

"In a carnal sense, yes," he said with a smirk.

I fought the urge to smile as well. "And I know what goes on in her mind." I threw my weight forward into a lunging shield bash.

Zev rolled left, making a slash at my legs that I barely dodged. "A man claiming to know the mind of a woman. I do believe I read a comedy about that, once."

I ignored him. "From all my promises and forswearing, she expected me to come hunting right as she took her leave from us. Thus," I said, blocking a thrown dagger with my shield and returning one of my own, "I shall bide my time, until she no longer suspects me. I will search the sites of old worship, one by one. Consult experts of blood arts. Wander through the Fade. And then, by fire and sword, whatever the cost..." The small grin broke through. "I shall be upon her."

"Knowing you, yes, that's how this whole mess will play out," drawled Zevran, feinting quickly and, using my shield as a step, vaulting over me with a downward strike which I dodged just in time. "You mounting Morrigan like a halla in heat, blind and deaf to the world, with a score of kings wanting your head as their armies knock upon your door. Splendid."

I half-shrugged. "If you have a better approach, by all means, share it."

I blinked, and Zevran had vanished. I spun just in time as two shortswords bore down on me, the blades skidding down my shield and grazing my right gauntlet. The same gauntlet that held Morrigan's ring within. Damn it all, what was she thinking?

"Had I a better plan," Zevran said as he materialized at my right, sheathing his blades, "I would prefer yours. Makes for _much_ better storytelling. Much more romantic. Bloodier, too- always a plus," he added with a mischievous grin.

"I had hoped you'd understand."

* * *

><p>"All is well, High Councillor?"<p>

Anora looked up at me, a quiet anger sleeping behind serene features. "Were it not, Warden, I suppose we would all be sitting in the Arch Demon's belly, don't you think?"

I said nothing, and instead forced a polite smile. Sten, Wynne and I had pored over the records and codices detailing Ferelden's laws and rules of succession for days, and only by luck did Wynne notice a short article from ancient times, nearly unreadable from the dialect and age. Apparently, back in the less enlightened times, it was considered... acceptable for the ruling monarch to have a royal concubine of his choosing. Upon being informed, Alistair used every facet of royal influence he had to amend that (not without cries of dissent from traditionalists, of course), renaming the unscrupulous office that of "High Councillor". Anora was liberated from her tower, but... she was less than pleased at her involuntary promotion. It had taken quite a bit of convincing from Loghain not to simply exile herself to the Anderfels.

"Very well. Good morrow to you, my lady," I offered with a slight nod. She returned it, ever so slightly.

* * *

><p>I nodded each time as Wynne listed off the duties Alistair had to immediately attend to. The relocation of the nobles' power, redrawing the borders of certain estates, political relations with the rest of the world- especially Orlais, the prospect of siring an heir... the list seemed to never end.<p>

"And that," Wynne said with a small adjustment of her reading spectacles, "is merely the beginning. Had Alistair known of all this tediousness beforehand, I'm afraid he wouldn't have been so willing to take the throne."

"But... how is he settling in? In terms of... health?" I didn't want to sound too concerned, but Wynne saw through that with ease.

She patted my arm reassuringly. "He is hale as can be, Scarre. Recovering from wounds from the battle, lack of sleep, very stressed, not eating properly... but these things will pass as he grows accustomed to his station. It is quite the change, you know, from an adventuring templar to a studious king."

I felt a sting of guilt at that. "Yes. It is."

* * *

><p>I paced down one of the many halls, thinking. That's all I had seemed to do in the past few days. Think, stare at maps, and read and re-read tomes on ancient magic. Blood magic, black magic, dark magic- anything that had to do with the Old Gods. But nothing in that library gave me a lead.<p>

Pressing the rosewood band to my lips, I breathed deeply, filling my head with her fragrance, and wondered. Could she feel my anxiety, my want, my... obsession... from her side of the link? Would that only drive her away? I pulled the ring halfway off my finger before I hastily jammed it back on, gritting my teeth. She may feel me... but I could feel her. Sorrow. It grew more distant by the day, but I could still sense it like the cold castle air around me.

"Grey Warden!"

I snapped back into reality, and noticed a troop of buffoonish nobles strutting down the corridor, dressed in all manner of frills and lace and puffed sleeves, hailing me. Couldn't exactly turn about and walk away- especially, once I noticed that Alistair was among them.

He still wore his armor. Odd. I felt somehow... inadequate, just standing there in tunic and breeches like any other commoner. We looked at each other, testing the air. The nobles shifted uncomfortably, glancing to one another.

"Alistair."

"Scarre."

A pause. One of the nobles coughed delicately.

"Yet another meeting, I see."

"Estates don't rebuild themselves, unfortunately," Alistair said tonelessly. "Though that'd be a fine parlor trick. Make selling them rather hard, though. 'Make sure you don't move the kitchen table. It hates it when you do that.'"

Laugher from the nobles, worthless sycophants that they were. I just stared. Alistair looked like shit. There were circles like the void under his bloodshot eyes, skin pale, wrinkles in his forehead from squinting, an emptiness in his gaze I hadn't seen since Ostagar. Even in the Deep Roads, hounded by dreams of the Arch Demon, he had looked healthier than this. Despite the jesting, his voice was utterly dead and without drive. I wanted to tell him it would only get worse from here, that I wouldn't have his back, but...

"Well, I'm clearly interrupting. Don't mind me. Ladies, gentlemen." I gave a nod to the nobles, who returned it- each trying to outdo each other. "Until next time, Alistair."

"Whenever that may be." He brushed right past, and the aristocrats followed.

It was as if he already knew.

* * *

><p><em>I haven't posted anything in a while. Bad form on my part. But I had this laying around after Dragon Age II, so I thought, why not. We'll see where it goes.<em>


End file.
